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What’s your favorite condiment to put on a leftover-turkey sandwich? —Louise V., St. Louis
Coincidentally, we were asked that same question several years ago. As we noted back then, there are as many post-Thanksgiving turkey sandwich condiments as there are opinions on how best to prepare and cook the turkey in the first place.
We asked members of SLM's dining team whether they had condiment preferences.
A little texture is often desired, along with a little acid, says Emily Wasserman, hence her predilection for leftover homemade cranberry relish.
Mayonnaise is favored by the majority, however. (Both Hellmann’s and Duke’s have adamant fan bases.) Mayo is a simple and apt pairing when the sandwich consists of richly flavored dark meat. Pat Eby takes it up a notch, though, mixing equal parts of Duke’s with a country Dijon. “Grey Poupon is nice but not mandatory—but Duke’s is sacred,” she says. "This past summer, I made up a new condiment that really set off turkey sandwiches. In an effort to use every part of the vegetables and reduce food waste, I made beet stem pickles. These tiny jewel-like pieces, sweet and sour, perked up summer greens salads, but as the 10-day deadline approached to use these pickles up, I had to find another use. I mixed them up with a German beer mustard and slathered them on a seven-grain bread with smoked turkey breast. Delicious."
Bill Burge says that "after a few rounds of sheltering up [during the pandemic] and hosting only our direct family, we're back to the in-laws this year. For us, that means we won't really have any leftover turkey, but what we will have is turkey soup because my mother-in-law is an unstoppable champion of all things soup."
The late SLM dining critic Ann Lemons Pollack preferred mango chutney, “preferably a spicy one,” or "that recipe for turkey, stuffing, and cranberry Chelsea buns.”
Collin Preciado keeps his preference, and his description, simple: "Durkee with your turkey."
Cheryl Baehr likes to make a sauce of mayo, Dijon, a touch of honey, and a little Penzey’s Chicago Seasoning. "It ends up being a bit like a smoky honey mustard," Baehr says.
Photo by George Mahe
Tkemali (the "t" is silent: think Keith Tkachuk) is available at Global Foods Market in Kirkwood
This year, Holly Fann is in experimentation mode: "That moment when, a day or two after Thanksgiving, I look in the fridge and realize all the leftover cranberry sauce has been consumed, I turn into a pity party puddle. Cue the Charlie Brown music. So this year, when I have to find a suitable condiment that can do all the magical and otherworldly things that cranberry sauce does for turkey sandwiches, I’m going to reach for the Georgian plum sauce tkemali. It’s made of red and green plums, and while my palate favors acidity, tkemali delivers a kick of sour along with sweet and aromatic notes that makes poultry taste more savory, and, for lack of a better description, meatier."
Courtesy of oo'mämē
Personally, I'm a mayo lover...and a mayo mixer. For sandwich duty, I've been known to add a smidge of locally created oo'mämē (the Mexican flavor, the one with bits of mango and orange) to a few tablespoons of Duke's. Or I'll combine Duke's and Dijon in a 75/25 ratio. For a Thanksgiving weekend hot leftover meal, it's fun to tinker with the Kentucky Hot Brown, the mornay sauce–topped, open-faced turkey and bacon sandwich created a century ago at The Brown Hotel in Louisville. (Don't be intimidated: Mornay is easy to make.)
Years ago, SLM dining critic Dave Lowry pontificated on the wonders of umeboshi, a pickled Asian fruit resembling a small plum (available at Global Foods). Asked about condiments more recently, he elaborated:
OK, first, there are no “condiments” for a turkey sandwich. No more so than there are “condiments” for Bach’s Notenbüchlein für Anna Magdalena.There are elements, each contributing the precise proportions necessary for a masterpiece. There is bread—and in the ecumenical spirit of adiaphora, a certain liberty is granted here as to the actual make and model of that ingredient—which should not be interpreted as a licence for any bread product including quinoa or spelt. There is turkey, which, like your great aunt’s favorite Thanksgiving libation, arrives white, chilled, and in copious amounts. And there is mayo. Mayo is specifically mentioned in the Mayflower Compact. There were actually hogsheads of it in the hold of the ship. That’s it. That’s a turkey sandwich. Yes, there are those who would put dressing on the sandwich. This is a mild perversion, harmless but a trifle avant-garde. Basically, though, dressing on a bread sandwich is like drinking Scotch with a bourbon chaser. These being more informal times, I will admit there is room for the addition, on holidays when one is feeling particularly daring or exotic, of a schmear of cranberry sauce, using mayo as a buffer so as not to sogify the bread. I don’t make the rules, but without them, Thanksgiving becomes indistinguishable from a pack of hyenas feeding on a wildebeest carcass.
Editor's note: This story has been updated from the original version.
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